A Question Of Character
by randomismyname
Summary: 'Besides, he knew as well as any other that in his soul, the number of vices far outweighed the virtues, and one extra blessing was not going to tip the balance in his favour.' A study of the character Ulquiorra Cifer.
1. Ulquiorra Cifer

A/N: This is just a series of oneshots focusing mainly on my favorite characters, but I'll be chucking in some of the more...interesting characters when I get the chance. The writing's pretty heavy going, so please bare with it; I was trying my hand at exploring their personalities. If there's anything you don't quite get or if you have any questions about my weird way of portraying things, then don't hesitate to ask!!! Oh, and just so ya know, the strange poem-like thing is written by Kubo for each of the characters on the front covers of the manga. Just so you don't get confused.

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Hope you enjoy!!!

Disclaimer: Randomismyname owns nothing featured in this article...except maybe her warped style of writing...heh.

A Question of Character

There is no meaning to our world.

There is no meaning to those of us living there.

We meaningless beings ponder the world,

Though the realization of meaninglessness

itself means nothing.

(Tite Kubo)

Ulquiorra Cifer (Schiffer)

It was in his nature, so they said; not to feel. Not once had he ever been seen to smile. Not once had he ever frowned. He was void of all emotion, hardly a sentient being for all of the personality he exuded. A machine. A useful object created by its master to serve a singular purpose.

In his case: to kill.

This was easy enough to see in his every move; there was something predatory in his stance; threatening. The elegance with which he moved bore an air of tense patience, as if waiting, watching; always ready for attack.

He expected one.

He had never been seen to relax at any point in his existence, save for a characteristic habit of burying his hands in his pockets. As far as his comrades knew, he was what he appeared to be; cold, aloof and flat. This knowledge in itself was no great achievement; he had made no effort to get to know them, and they had returned the gesture with little regret. After all, despite their misgivings, they were not so different from him.

Perhaps, then, what they found so objectionable about him was his iron self-control: it unnerved them. If he were angry, he would not show it, if he were happy (something which seemed far too unlikely to be plausible) he would not seem it. The only indication of emotion that was ever shared among his peers was the occasional twitch of a hand, or a stiffness in the shoulders that indicated his yearning to kill; to put them down before they could enrage him further.

After all, they were only trash to him.

It was peculiar, to say the least, therefore, that he should have an expression that countered his personality so solidly. Although his features themselves remained permanently fixed in a blank, dead state, at first glance, it would appear as if he were weeping. From his empty, vivid green eyes there trailed an acidic line of a similar hue, running needle-sharp lines over his high cheek-bones and down to edge of his jaw, past his inky black upper lip. With his skin already such a drastically pale tone, it could almost be believed that the line had been carved into his face, the features themselves crafted from stone, and considering how little they moved, the belief would not be unfounded.

It was an interesting face; young, yet ageless, and could perhaps have been considered handsome in its own, atypical sort of way. The structure was pleasing enough; strong jaw, well-formed and not too heavy, straight nose and nicely-proportioned eyes and forehead. His hair hung softly around his face in thick black locks, the smooth texture forming a sharp contrast with the jagged tresses that fell past his neck, finishing at a point between his shoulder blades. Even the helmet-like mask that protected one side of his head contributed to this effect; the bone-like material creating a flexible armoured plating that adjusted to his every move, and the horn shaped like a moth's antenna protruding from the side, appearing far more delicate than it truly was.

However, of all his attributes, the eyes were the most captivating. They were long and narrow, framed by thick black lashes that shadowed, infinitesimally, the violent shade of emerald that made up his irises. The pupils were no more than slits, rarely changing their size even in the darkest of rooms, and the way in which he looked up at others, even if he were twice their height, gave him a baleful look, quite the opposite effect to what would be created had his alert nature been put on show in its stead. It was not the shape that caused this, although both it and the fiery colour contributed, but rather the alignment of his eyebrows; the black lines were thin and positioned so low over the green orbs that it appeared as if they didn't even exist. The way in which they sloped downwards almost made him seem anxious. Almost. They were only visible in a rare display of emotion; perhaps a brow being raised in cold incredulity…if that could even be called emotion.

Yet he was not without humour; his interactions with humans proved this well enough, and many would be surprised to learn of his insatiable curiosity, particularly when focused on the said species.

Being so devoid of them himself, he often found that he was intrigued by human emotions and by the peculiarities that resulted from them. In particular, what they called the heart. It had never made sense to him. Humans valued these things called 'feelings' so much, yet as far he could see, they did nothing but weaken the individual, leaving them open to foolishly easy attacks.

The Woman was a prime example of this.

He, on the other hand, could never be connected with such weakness. He had been designed, moulded and created for a purpose, his lesser sensations removed to leave only the indestructible force that was an Espada; the best of the best. He would serve his creator; his master, 'till his death, and he would be glad to do so. Having experienced life of such power, how could he ever think of returning to that fragile form he had left behind; pitiful; degrading.

Although pride was not something he would willingly admit to, having risen to such heights in the ranks of the Espada and with the knowledge that only he knew how powerful he truly was nipping at his thoughts, he could not help but feel it tweak at his consciousness on occasion, maybe even being followed by a slight twitch of the lips. This would then be smothered immediately; only scum took pride in their power over others, and despite his appearance of superiority, which was not unwarranted given his status, he had always hoped to rise above the need to flaunt his abilities in such a demeaning way.

But emotions…

The more he considered them, the more frustrated he became. Where did they originate from? Was it this so-called heart? What was so appealing about them? He would never expose himself to such trivialities, yet he could not deny his interest in the concept…to be able to feel another's closeness; the warmth of being in a comforting presence; the comprehension of another's pain, and the knowledge of how to remedy it…

Perhaps it was more than interest.

But it was not to be. A killer was not meant to feel, and a soldier did not have the right to think for himself. These…longings, he realized, would get him nowhere. Besides, he knew as well as any other that in his soul, the number of vices far outweighed the virtues, and one extra blessing was not going to tip the balance in his favour.

It was the Woman's fault. Definitely. Her and her wild emotions running riot whenever he entered her room, her behaviour becoming more and more erratic with each visit. It was exhausting and, at times, humiliating. The day that she had slapped him sprung forth in his memory all too often. She had been so cooperative before; he hadn't expected her to respond in such a way. He thought he had been helping her; showing her that there was no point in worrying for the other humans; that she should be humiliated by their thoughtlessness in chasing after her and forget that they ever existed. She, however, for some inexplicable reason, had hit him. He wasn't sure he had ever been so angry. But he obeyed orders as a rule, and knew that punishing her himself at that moment would fly too far from the original 'request' that she be kept unharmed. She seemed to have understood, though, how close it had come then to the snap. She hadn't attempted it again.

It had been that moment that the first sparks of curiosity were lit.

Patience, too, he found, was a much needed asset when it came to 'socializing' with that creature. Although mostly she had been quiet and submissive enough after that time to evoke his grudging respect, there were occasions, too many for him to be comfortable with, where she had pushed him almost to the limits of his self-control. He had never been one to suffer fools, and her incessant ramblings about food, decorations, friends and…killer robots…never failed to touch a nerve. Most notably the wrong one.

After a time, though, he found he could read her better. He knew that when she refused food she was lonely; that when she yawned loudly she was bored and that when she did it louder still, she expected him to do something about it.

He also knew that when she stood before his rapidly disintegrating body, harsh winds whipping at her hair as they stood in that barren wasteland, her hands clutched against her chest and eyebrows knitted together, that she was upset.

What he couldn't understand was why.

Why should she be sad at his death? He had taken her hostage. Hadn't she been longing for this all along? Hoping desperately that the human boy would save her?

The boy stood next to her now; apparently concerned, his fists shaking with the effort drawn from him in order to stay upright. He looked…disappointed.

Hmph. Foolishness. Hadn't the boy been trying to kill him from the start? Humans really were odd creatures.

He turned to the Woman again, his vibrant eyes, not even close to clouding over, met hers and he saw her sharp intake of breath, her shoulders rising swiftly as she fought to control whatever new sensation she was experiencing.

Without understanding fully why he was doing it, he raised his arm, lifting it towards her, his fingers stretching slightly. Her eyes not breaking contact with his for a moment, her arm did the same, the delicate, breakable skin of her hand appearing ghostly white in the light of the cold moon.

"Are you afraid of me, Woman?"

Her eyes narrowed somewhat, her mouth pulling up at the corners in a grimace. Pain…? Physical or something more…?

"No, I'm not afraid."

She stepped closer, her finger-tips now inches away from his own. He found himself irrationally hoping, yearning for her to touch him, to allow him to feel something in his last moments…

But then his own skin cracked, the tips of his fingers breaking off in asymmetric chunks before the wind swept them up and crushed them into dust. He watched calmly as the rest of his hand followed, a numb sensation creeping up his arm in warning as she attempted to move forward again, still trying to reach him. As the top of his shoulders started to vanish, though, she recognized that it was too late, her hand dropping to her side, limp and empty. He saw the blank look of loss in her eyes; saw himself reflected in them, and knew somehow that he didn't want it.

Raising the corners of his lips just slightly, he managed a smile.

The last image to embed itself in his memory before his world faded completely was of her face; hurt, yet most astonishingly, warm, as if there were something brighter to this dire picture after all. Truly strange…

Throughout his fight with the boy, he had chastised himself for being so weak, for not being fast enough; agile enough; _strong_ enough. But when he had looked at that Woman's face, the threat of tears starting in the corners of her eyes, he had wished he had been able to know more; to understand what it was that drove her to cry on his behalf, and it almost saddened him to know that he would never find out.

Perhaps that had been his greatest weakness of all.

***

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	2. Hitsugaya Toushirou

A/N: I am so sorry. I pity anyone trying to read this monstrosity. 19 pages. That's how long this thing is, and that's how much I love Hitsugaya. If I'd been left to my own devices, this would have gone on endlessly, and I mean ENDLESSLY. So, read at your own risk. You have been warned.

Disclaimer again, just in case it didn't get through last time: I. Not. Own. Bleach...Not. Even. A. Little. Bit...

There, I've said it.

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~A Question Of Character~

The rain of the sun pouring down

Erases footprints on thin ice

Do not fear deception

The world already lies atop deception

'_Frozen passion'_

(Tite Kubo)

Hitsugaya Toushirou

Whatever his appearance might suggest, he was most definitely _not_ a child.

Certainly, he was renowned for being the youngest captain that the Soul Society had ever seen, but if the definition of a child was a being exceeding the age of a hundred, then an elderly human hoping to glean some respect from their advancement in years would be sorely disappointed. After all, if one could still be labelled an infant after existing for over a century, then the wisdom and experience that mortals prided themselves on gaining for surviving so long would count for nil.

Even he, who attained this highest rank of achievement with such ease, often found that his ability was questioned on one too many an occasion. The odd snide remark about his height or age was not uncommon, but that did not make it any less unwelcome. The said comments, once uttered, would then be swiftly quelled with one pointed glance from his sharp eyes, and if that didn't work, well…a reminder that _he_ was the one sporting a white haori often did the trick. The offender was rarely foolish enough to repeat the same mistake twice.

If there were one thing that he prided himself on, it was this ever-present ability to set even the most hardened of soldiers quaking before him, all their confidence and gruff demeanour wasted on his cold, intimidating silence. Impressive, really, considering the fact that in order to stare them down, he had to stare _up_ at the person, and that wasn't all too comfortable when he was topped by them by at least a foot. Unfortunately for him, the only other creature in the entirety of Gotei 13 shorter than himself was also immune to this talent, preferring instead to shriek maniacally and leap about his office in a whirl of hyper-active pink animation; behaviour he did not deem becoming of an officer.

So, he couldn't deny it: being…vertically challenged did have its drawbacks.

But that wasn't to say that it didn't also have its advantages. Out of all the other captains, he had, perhaps, the most unique of fighting techniques; one which naturally suited his stature and slight, lithe build more than the traditional methods. Many would be surprised to note, that where it may have been easier for someone of greater height to block a swinging blow, or at least dodge it, he would leap from the ground and _onto_ the blade, effectively immobilising the opponent until the time came when he removed himself. _How_ exactly this was effective was difficult to grasp unless you were the person carrying it out.

To an observer, it would occur to simply tilt the sword sideways, thus unbalancing the one perched atop it. But, if they were to look more closely, it would become apparent that because his weight was distributed so evenly, and because he kept one foot as close as he could to the sword's hilt, it meant that it was now impossible for the owner to move their own blade, let alone twist it. This then gave him the opportunity to strike them wherever he wished and, without giving them the chance to retaliate, he could use the sword as leverage in order to push himself away, forcing the other to stumble backwards and allowing himself to land neatly several metres from them, completely unharmed.

Even at the academy, before he'd developed his infamous Shikai, he had gained quite a reputation through this system. No student had ever lasted more than few moments against him, knowing that if they weren't careful, they could end up with several very nasty-looking wounds, not to mention a broken wrist; and this was with only the use of wooden swords. Although it was unlikely that any real damage would be caused; he was far too careful to allow such a lapse in concentration.

His fighting style wasn't the only thing that earned him a reputation. As mentioned before, his appearance wasn't exactly what could be called 'conventional', and it seemed that no matter where he went, this fact followed him like a plague. A very unwelcome one at that.

It wasn't that he was ugly or malformed in any way; quite the opposite, in fact. It was simply that his features did not fit in with certain standards that the rest of society held. Probably, the most noticeable of these was his hair: it was white, almost unnaturally so, and the only signs that he had been born with it were the tell-tale silver streaks that ran from his hairline, darker in areas that rarely saw sunlight, and taking on a distinct blue tinge when cast in shadow. It was quite long, but this became irrelevant due to the fact that, put frankly, it defied gravity; great locks of hair rising into soft points that pulled away from his face, flopping slightly at the tips so that with each movement, they seemed to sway gently.

Some liked to joke that he purposefully styled it in that manner to compensate for his lack of height, but if the subject were ever broached, the most the questioner could hope to receive was a nasty bout of frost-bite.

Honestly, it wasn't his fault that it looked that way; it just wouldn't lie flat, no matter what he tried. So, having recognised defeat long ago, he had simply given the whole thing up as hopeless.

One of these said tresses, however, seemed to have disregarded the general formation, and instead hung casually over one eye, the bleached colour of it creating a stark contrast with his pitch-black eyelashes; long and thick enough that they formed a dark barrier between the pale of his skin and the shock of his irises. The colour of these was so vibrant that they almost appeared to glow; a neon brightness that shone no matter what the environment.

His features were as young as his reputation said, but they were far more refined than those of a typical human child; his bone structure was both delicate and strong in equal measure, and through his slightly rounded cheeks, a pair of high, already sharp bones could be seen; a mark of his progression into adulthood. His nose and chin, although still small, showed signs of strengthening in the near future, and with his facial proportions already so exact, there was no doubt that given time, he would develop into a very aesthetically pleasing specimen indeed.

Those eyes in themselves, though, were enough to create this image prematurely: the glittering turquoise depths were well-known for showing more intensity of emotion and wisdom than his stoic features ever could.

Willingly, that is.

However, much to his displeasure, some of his more potent emotions _did _seep through his indifferent mask (particularly the negative ones), and this often led to misunderstandings, some of which he was certain were deliberate.

One vice-captain in particular (naming no names, of course) seemed to have made it her aim in life to draw out of him every emotion humanly possible of expressing, exclaiming wildly about how _cute_ he looked when he frowned like that, and that he _surely_ didn't mean all of those _nasty_ things he was saying to her; he was just embarrassed! Poor little Taicho!

Well, he supposed she'd been right about one thing: the embarrassment had become second nature to him now. Forty years of working with a sake-fuddled female, who happened to have a certain disregard for clothing, did that to you.

He couldn't really fault her for it though; humiliating though it may have been at the time, occasions such as these had allowed him to relax more around her, and because of this, their relationship as colleagues had strengthened immeasurably. She might annoy the hell out of him more often than was really necessary, but she did it with good spirit, and she always remembered to shut up when the temperature dropped a little too quickly to be natural.

Just as long as she got her paperwork done on time…no…that was definitely too hopeful…

Just as long as she didn't get in his way too often…yes, that seemed more suitable…they got along well enough.

Despite his numerous complaints about her tardiness and lack of work ethic, he wouldn't be lying if he said he enjoyed the peace and quiet. Workaholic though he may seem, he did not relish paperwork of any kind, and the only thing that kept him from shirking his duties as often as she did was the knowledge that it would not look good on his records, and really, he could do without another reason for his right to authority to be questioned. Any time that could be used to get it over and done with was gladly snatched at, and so when she arrived at the office around noon or so, she would nearly always find him hunched over his desk, a rapidly depleting pile of papers beside him.

Note the words 'nearly always'.

There were some occasions when she would appear to find him pacing restlessly, his brow furrowed and hands clenched tightly at his back. He would be snappy; biting her head off for nothing more than scraping her chair a little too loudly, not to mention arriving well past time. This would usually be at a stage when both he and his sword were feeling particularly agitated; most probably because of a lack of exercise from having been stuck inside all day.

She would see this; roll her eyes; and send him out for a walk, ignoring his protestations and threats about position, harassment and iced cosmetics, and insisting that he return only when he was capable of sitting still for over two minutes without breaking any calligraphy brushes.

Occasionally, she would enter to find the exact opposite; him padding about the room in socks; his haori discarded, and with a slightly glazed expression; his face upturned and open. This was most unusual, but she never questioned it; enjoying the last relaxed moments she would likely have for the rest of the year. Besides, she'd found that when in this state she could get away with spouting endlessly about that truly _adorable_ look on his face, and he wouldn't reprimand her at all!

On days like these, he hardly knew if he were coming or going; just content with staring mindlessly out of the large window behind his desk, basking in the shrouded sunlight that would fall through it. Not the full sunlight; no. He could never say that he liked any kind of heat, and he found it difficult to concentrate when the said irritating orb was scorching his back as he worked, making him drowsy.

He supposed it made sense, though; that he should have an aversion to it: his Zanpaku-tou was an ice-type after all.

Before the dragon had made his first appearance, he hadn't really minded the sun or any of its attributes. He found that he could spend whole days just lying on the roof of his home, listening to the sounds of shinigami leave and enter Seireitei, too caught up in their duties to concern themselves with the lives of others.

She was one of those.

Before she had discovered her talents, they would spend all of their time together; talking, eating and laughing (though the laughter was usually one-sided). She would even attend his spinning-top matches; cheering him on whenever he faced a particularly tricky opponent and clapping joyfully when he, naturally, won. Afterwards, they would stay up late, legs slung casually over the edge of the balcony that led to their room and munching away on slices of watermelon, content in basking in the glory of his latest victory and feigning deafness whenever their 'grandmother' called them in to bed.

He would have been happy to remain that way forever, but, as per usual in his case, things did not turn out the way he wanted.

She had started to grow hungry. Not the usual type of hunger that is easily satiated with a light meal, but the gut-consuming pain that could only be associated with starvation. At first she had pretended that nothing was wrong, but when he began to notice bones protruding from areas that had once been smooth and rounded, he knew that she shouldn't have been there. At some point there had been a confrontation, and she, realizing that she was now risking her health for no reason, was mollified enough that she decided to try for entrance at the Spiritual Arts Academy.

She succeeded.

When she visited them a year later, the change in her was palpable. She no longer appeared drawn and weak, but fresh and whole, her face radiant and shining with excitement as she told him about her new life; about her friends, her powers and, finally, the captain. Her captain.

Apparently she was happy, and he supposed at the time, he should have been pleased for her. But despite him telling himself that he was; that he wanted this for her, he couldn't deny the sudden rush of jealousy when she spoke with such affection towards these people he had never met. There was a part of him that needed her, and no matter how much he hated himself for it, he wanted her to need him too.

But, over the months, her visits became less and less frequent, and he found he could forget; the memories, though ever sharp in his mind, never focused his thoughts in quite the way they had before. There were times that he wouldn't even realise she was coming; only making a mental note to see her when his grandmother would totter past; reminding him to be polite. He always was (if silence could be considered well-mannered), and he only spoke to her if asked a direct question, mostly fixing his eyes determinedly on a spot about a foot from where he sat, hoping not to be noticed.

Years passed, and she stopped coming all together. She had a new life, free from the dirt and poverty of Rukongai. She didn't need them.

But all too soon after she had started to fade from his mind, he discovered that there were other, more pressing matters to attend to than those of his emotional inadequacies.

The dreams had started roughly a year after her leaving, and though he never divulged any information of any kind regarding them, he had to admit that they disturbed him greatly. He would stand alone in this dream world of his, surrounded by ice; cold enough that it bit into his skin and numbed his senses, and every night, on that plane of ice, he died.

He would wake from these visions in a cold sweat; shaking violently and wondering why on earth his sheets were somehow stiff with frost; his panicked breaths misting before him, despite the fact that it was the height of summer.

And he was hungry.

He recognised the signs. How could he not? But that didn't change the fact that he was young and healthy, and his grandmother clearly wasn't. Having seemed to shrink into herself more and more, both physically and mentally, he believed his worry for her was not unfounded, and so, ignoring his body's protests, he stayed.

That is, he stayed until _that_ day.

Even now, he shuddered at the memory, preferring instead to drown his sorrows in his division's paperwork rather than face up to that genuinely horrible truth.

Yes, unfortunately, that was exactly how he had met her, and, yes, he really wished the circumstances had been different. However, there was no changing the past, and there was no backing away from the fact that _that_ day, he had first been…'introduced' to his busty, blonde, loud, irritating, alcoholic, loyal, brave, caring fukutaichou.

It really hadn't mattered that much, and honestly, he hadn't cared. But for some reason, she had taken it upon herself to 'defend his honour', and that, of course, coming from her, could never have had a good outcome. So, without even realizing what was going on, he had found himself making a rapid descent towards the ground, having been knocked down by _those_ unspeakable atrocities. Feeling somewhat dazed, he hadn't noticed her yelling at the poor vendor who had so foolishly induced her rage, but he most certainly had noticed her gripping him by the scruff of the neck and proceeding to lecture him about 'not standing up for himself'. Having not been in the mood to be reprimanded, he had shouted back, thrown her off, escaped her clutches and run back home, ignoring her insistence that he stay.

That night, he met the dragon.

It made sense that it should've happened then; with his friend's infrequent visits strengthening his reiatsu so much, it would take very little to push him over the edge, and that brief encounter with his future subordinate had acted as the perfect catalyst.

As usual, he had come to that desolate plane of ice, the harsh air tearing at his lungs and his bare feet freezing upon contact with the burning ground. But for the first time, he wasn't alone.

A deafening roar filled his ears, drawing painful breaths through his teeth as he fought to block it out. But did he want to block it out? It seemed so familiar somehow…

Shards of ice began to rise from the ground, changing size and shape as they moulded together, locking with a metallic screeching sound as they grew up and up in steady formation. Before long, the serpentine figure of a dragon had formed, its wings unfolded and huge as they beat strong winds about him, forcing his hair back from his face. In its long snout there could be seen rows of endless teeth; miniature swords in likeness and certainly holding the same deadly power. Its entire body was a deep, icy blue and it seemed to have a slight transparency to it, as though it had remained ice, despite its ability to move freely, without the usual constraints that the brittle substance owned.

He had stood, shaking, unable to summon to the will to stir; to run from the monster as it slid closer, its eyes red and threatening.

"Wh-what the hell are you?!"

In response to this, the dragon had opened its jaws, letting forth a deep rumble of sound that seemed to echo off invisible walls; disorientating him.

"**Little boy! You have—!"**

"What are you saying!? I can't hear you!"

The roaring grew louder and the slick tail thrashed, driving into the ground and throwing up knife-like splinters of ice that flew dangerously close to him, landing point first and burying themselves deeply only a few feet away. Covering his head with his arms, he tried to move back, but some irrepressible force kept him there, staying his movements.

"**My name is--!" **

The sudden blast nearly blew him from his feet and, squeezing his eyelids tightly shut, he tried to ride out the worst of it, hoping desperately that he would wake up; that this would turn out to be nothing more than a dream.

And then he did wake up.

Only to find _her_ leaning over him, ridiculous grin firmly in place. When she'd noticed his eyes on her, the smile had only widened and, raising a hand in mock-salute, she'd decided it would be her who would initiate conversation.

"Hey!"

"Why you—from before--!"

He had rolled over, ready to pounce, but she took a step back, her voice becoming quieter.

"Your reiatsu. Stop leaking everywhere and get some sleep. Your grandmother looks pretty cold."

His head had snapped immediately to the right where the old woman lay beside him. She was shivering lightly, her hair beaded with frozen water and the futon fixed to the floor with sparkling white ice.

"…"

"Kid, you should become a Shinigami."

His gaze flew back to her; wide-eyed and fearful. He hadn't expected anyone to notice.

"Wha-?"

"Kids with powers as strong as yours need to know how to bring that power under control. You know, if you stay like this, you're going to end up killing that grandmother of yours soon enough."

"What are you--?!"

Before he could say another word, her hand had shot out and gripped his shoulder, preventing him from moving. The hand relaxed, and moments later it was to be found hovering over his chest at about the area his heart would be. She knelt down in front of him, her eyes, strangely compassionate, staring sombrely into his own.

"You hear a voice calling out, right?"

He didn't answer.

"Once you properly discover that voice, you'll learn how to control your power. But that means becoming a Shinigami."

Her gaze softened.

"I'll only say it once more, kid."

And that had been it.

With only a few, simple words from her, his resolve had shattered, and so, the following day, he had found himself striding calmly towards the outer boundaries of Seireitei, crumpled permission slip held tightly in hand.

His grandmother had been thrilled: another of her house with the profound talents of a Soul Reaper, and had chided him for his foolish decision to remain for her sake, knowing that he'd been holding back and possibly hurting himself in the process. He hadn't regretted it though; no matter what she said, she hadn't been able to look after herself. It was only right that he stay and help.

But now, with the knowledge of what this latent power was capable of, he had no choice but to seek a new life, and he had every intention of following his late-night visitor's advice.

It had taken him a day to shake off the doubts concerning his age and capabilities among the staff of the Academy, but considerably longer before he was actually granted entrance. It confused them, he supposed, that someone so young and inexperienced could wield such raw power, and a Rukongian at that! Such a thing was unheard of in the halls of Seirietei's most well established school.

But not for long.

There had only been one other, according to rumour, that had succeeded in passing the entrance exams at an alarmingly young age. He had apparently set the record for the least number of years taken in graduating and had immediately been granted a seated position among the ranks of the Gotei 13 upon doing so.

He was determined to beat this record.

And he did.

In less than a year, he had graduated with the highest score possible from the most senior advanced class, earning him the well-deserved title of 'tensai'; a title he absolutely loathed. The word was not used with the intention of flattery or praise as he might have once hoped, but instead as an insult; contemptuous and hateful, loaded with jealousy at his achievements.

He did his best to ignore them, trying instead to focus his attentions on his new duties as the Eighth Division's fifth seat. The work wasn't hard, but it wasn't overly satisfying either; miles of endless paperwork concerning hollow sightings and meaningless complaints from subordinates could hardly be considered rewarding, but he completed them without protest.

The problem came when interacting with his captain.

The man was not known for taking anything other than women particularly seriously, and even then, he fell just short of the usual requirements for decency and plopped neatly into the slot labelled 'harassment'. It hadn't helped that he, similarly to a certain blonde fukutaicho, had a hatred for following standard uniform constraints and enjoyed seemingly permanent inebriation. This was a trait he appeared to wish to impart upon others within his squad; most notably his much-abused fifth seat.

The most memorable time this had occurred, he had been attempting to leave a staff meeting between all seats above ten. The meeting, in which his captain had slept for most part, had recently ended, and all other participants had vacated the room and were heading back to the main offices, muttering irritably about having missed most of their lunch brake.

Unfortunately for him, the captain had decided to make his return to reality right about then, and had called for him to stop, his hat swaying dangerously as he sat up.

"You look stressed."

He had cocked his head to one side and, frowning, thrown all ceremony to the winds; not liking where the conversation was bound to be heading. After all, it wasn't insubordination if the superior officer didn't remember the incident, and he doubted very much that his captain would have any idea as to what had gone on during this little rendezvous.

"You don't."

The older man chuckled lightly; hat slipping further over his eyes as he nodded.

"No, I suppose not. But you shouldn't be so worked up at such a young age; you need to relax more! Enjoy your youth while you still have it! You know the saying: 'all work and no play…'"

"Yes, I am familiar with the phrase. Thank you for your concern, Kyouraku-taichou, but I have no need to rel—"

"Nonsense! Every healthy young lad needs to have a brake now and then; a chance to loosen up and experience life in ways he never has before! And I have the perfect method: Sake!"

He had only just managed to resist the cringe that threatened to work its way over his face as the large, sloshing bottle was thrust alarmingly close to his nose. Previous experience in Rukongai had told him enough about his alcohol tolerance levels to know that it would be _unwise_ for him to ever lift any bottle of the stuff to his lips again. However, his captain was having none of it.

"Go on! Just a sip! You'll feel better in no time!"

Considering making a run for it, he had started edging his way backwards towards the door, trying desperately to come up with a sensible reason as to his sudden departure. Just as he was preparing to verbalise his latest excuse, the door behind him had slid open, and in had stepped the man who had rescued him from similar occasions oh, so many times.

"Not trying to poison the poor boy again, are you, Shunsui?"

Although the captain's grin could have been considered somewhat sheepish, there was absolutely no air of repentance at all. The bleary-eyed man gazed fondly at the newcomer, offering the jar to him as well; eyebrows quirked in a questioning manner. The saviour shook his head softly, long white locks of hair tumbling over his shoulders as he made to sit down next to his friend, his voice lightly reprimanding.

"Leave him alone. If he doesn't want to drink then you shouldn't make him. Just because you're constantly drunk and actually like it doesn't mean the rest of us rational—no, normal people do."

"Ah, but who wants to be 'rational'? And normal?! Don't make me laugh! If you or I had wanted normalcy in our lives we would've chucked these haoris long ago."

An eyebrow rose.

"Yes, well…"

The white haired captain turned to back to the previous hostage and sighed.

"Hitsugaya-kun, don't feel you need to stay just because this idiot can't control his…generosity. If you wish, you may leave whenever you like."

Relief seemed to wash over him and, beyond grateful to the 13th division head, he bowed.

"Thank you, Ukitake-taichou."

"You're very welcome, Hitsugaya-kun. Please, if you ever need anything, don't hesitate to drop by my office. I've just purchased some rather interesting confectionaries from the world of the living. I believe they were called 'sweets' or 'candies' or something or other…it'd be nice to share them with someone other than this buffoon."

The said 'buffoon' pouted at that and muttered something under his breath about 'not liking sherbet that much, anyway'.

He had hesitated; reluctant to make any promises he certainly had no intention of keeping.

"Thank you, but I have very little time…"

The captain smiled knowingly.

"I understand. Please forgive Shunsui for his inappropriate behaviour; I assure you he's not _completely_ incompetent."

"Juushiroooouuuuuu, I'm hurt…"

"Yes, I'm sure you are."

He had bowed once again, wishing fervently to be somewhere far away from the sake-loving lunatic, and taken his leave.

"Kyouraku-taichou. Ukitake-taichou."

Yes, that had certainly been an interesting experience.

If he hadn't witnessed it for himself, he would never have believed that captains would and _could_ treat each other in such a way, but after forty years of working in the same position as those two old men, he had come to understand the strength of the bonds that many captains shared, unhindered by thought of rank or formalities. Or at least, he believed that was how most of the captains felt…

Well, some, anyway…

Other than interpersonal relationships, he had also learnt that the true responsibilities of a captain differed quite considerably from the expectations of both the lower ranks and his superiors.

All members of the Gotei 13 were to follow orders. There was to be no infraction on this rule, and any such infraction would lead to immediate punishment.

Or so was meant to be the case…

He may have been thought to be a firm upholder of these rules, and considering his strict methods used on his vice-captain, the thought wouldn't be unwarranted. However, if any person expressing these views were to see him in action, they would certainly be in for a shock.

As far as he was concerned, he would only be obeying orders if he, personally, deemed them to be right. If they did not meet his standards, or if they appeared, bluntly, down-right evil, then he would ignore them, or, more drastically, go against them completely. Arrogant though this may seem, because of his judgement, several otherwise unknown cases had come rapidly to light, the most significant of these being the ones centring a certain captain's betrayal.

Betrayal…

He hated that word. He hated its meaning.

Nothing good had ever come from it; and he should know, better than most, perhaps.

Of course Aizen's betrayal had effected him; hadn't it everyone? But it ran deeper than that. He had entrusted Aizen with more than the responsibilities that the captains' haori entailed; he had trusted him with the safety and well-being of a life: of her life; impressionable and delicate, and he had disappointed in the worst way imaginable.

He would never be able to truly forget her scream as she stood before the supposedly dead man; her eyes turned wild and mouth curling back in a grimace of pain; something which had quickly morphed into a twisted smile as she had turned, sword raised towards the killer. Her expression had never changed, never shifted from its eerie countenance, even when he had arrested her; put both her and her opponent in a cell for the night, hoping that they would calm down.

She didn't.

When he had seen her again, after her hasty break out, she hadn't hesitated to turn her blade on him; her best friend; the boy she had known since childhood; who had only wanted to _protect_ her. She had believed the words of a _traitor_ over him, and even now, he wasn't sure he had it in him to forgive her for it. But that hadn't stopped him trying at the time.

Again, his only thoughts being those of her safety, he had barricaded her in his office, satisfied with the knowledge that anyone baring her ill will would never have enough strength to brake through from the outside. He had never considered it being broken from the inside. Once again, she had sought to hunt him down; the misidentified killer of the man she had served with such loyalty, but this time, they had found her first.

Aizen Sousuke, apparently deceased captain of 5th Division and love of her life had found her first. So when he had returned in search of her, hearing of her escape, he had found her bloodied corpse at the traitor's feet, her eyes dull and face frozen in a permanent state of shock.

He had never felt such anger before as he had then.

But it hadn't made a difference. In the end, he couldn't protect her. He had failed. He had betrayed her in much the same way as her captain, and though her own betrayal had stung him, his was by far the worst offence. There were other ways he could have prevented her escape, other ways he could have watched over her, and if he had just been a bit faster, a bit stronger, there would have been no need to heal her injuries, the mental or physical.

She still hadn't woken up. Perhaps she didn't want to.

It was a time he reflected on with little pleasure, and the manner in which the memories came to him, more often than he would have wished, tore at his thoughts, pulled at his heart and sent him into the blackest of moods. He would speak to no one, listen to no one, and no one dared to question him. Even those who knew him best could never fully comprehend what brought about these humours, instead putting it down to stress or a less attractive addition to his character.

Without even realizing it, he would often find himself walking dazedly towards the Forth Division, his reiatsu sending passers by shooting him nervous glances, skirting the edges of the streets just to avoid him.

The members of Fourth were never surprised to see him there, leaning stiffly against the frame of the door that led to her room, his expression gaunt; hollow. He would stand for hours, just watching, silently wishing for her to wake; to recognise his presence and be roused by it; happy to be with him, to know that he cared.

He did care.

Too much.

And as he waited in those silent, dark moments, he contemplated others' opinions; the fact that so many were wrong about him; that they presumed to know his soul so intimately with barely a glance at his appearance; a sneer at his height; a sideways glance at his haori.

They called him a child.

But he couldn't be a child. A child lives in a world that revolves around itself, whether it wants to or not, caring only for what matters to them in its naïve, self-indulgent existence. A child has the freedom to make no choices, to have the choices made for them; content enough to trust in the considerations of those thought to be adults and happy to remain ignorant for what little time they have left of their innocence.

There was nothing naïve or innocent about him: he'd seen too much to hope for an optimistic outlook on the world.

There was nothing selfish to him: he gave everything he had to others. He would even give his life.

So that left only one conclusion: the one he had repeated endlessly to those around him: the one that only he felt the true meaning of.

He was not a child.

And he never had been.

***

Yeah, I lied: no cookies...

but just think how good it'd make me feel if you reveiwed...surely that's all the reward you need...*flutters eyelashes*...please, you know you want to...


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